


Compass

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Lets Write Sherlock, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, challenge 1, letswritesherlock, sort of..., the boys are a bit slow on the uptake sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr.<br/>After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compass

**Author's Note:**

> First time ever I took up a prompt and I was very surprised that I even could come up with something.  
> It's not exactly like the prompt suggested, they stop on their way to 221b but that's okay, I guess - it starts with the taxi ride and ends at Baker Street.  
> Huge thanks to my lovely Beta's for the work on this - I know, it wasnt easy and i love you for putting up with my terrible self :-)

The tension is almost palpable, hanging in the space between them like a big dark cloud.

Both men are staring out of the cab windows - John on his side, Sherlock on the other. 

Neither of them is speaking. 

Every now and then John sneaks a habitual glance over, but as soon as he catches sight of that black coat, he feels his anger rising again. 

Clenching his fists he takes a few breaths and looks back out of the fogged window. 

It is late – or early, depending on how you look at it – and London is asleep, the streets are empty. 

Most windows of the houses the cab passes are dark. 

Here and there a light blinks like a beacon, a promise of warmth and safety. 

John's anger slowly ceases the longer he watches the city, _his_ city, fly by.

London at night is a thing of beauty: no matter what time it is, soft lights illuminate so many places, and throw a dreamlike glow over the city. 

The huge firms with their modern glass-and-steel structures, rearing tall and proud into the sky. 

The old and ancient-seeming buildings and museums with all their knowledge and wisdom. 

The rows of thrown together houses and shops, crammed into streets too small for them, leaning against each other like drunken sailors. 

The big shopping centres, palaces of consumption and money, blasting their nightly light spectacle into the dark. 

The heavy rain from earlier had subsided into a light drizzle and London is shimmering in the puddles on the pavement, creating a second, if blurred, city on the ground.

John gets lost in the sight of it, and for a moment he forgets everything around him. 

The rustle of clothes next to him pulls him harshly back into reality. 

It takes all of John's willpower to not lash out and just let go of his suppressed emotions. 

He doesn't want to make a scene, not here, not now.

Another rustle as Sherlock shifts in his seat and suddenly the man's scent hits John's nose. 

He bites back a groan, leaning his head against the cool window, closing his eyes. 

John is always over-aware of Sherlock, be it at home or out on a case. 

_Especially_ on a case. 

In the beginning of their partnership John had stumbled into more than one dangerous situation purely by accident, and only his soldier skills had saved them both from the worst. 

Such situations had happened mostly because Sherlock wasn’t used to having somebody by his side: either he dashed off, completely forgetting about John, or simply because John wasn't fast enough to keep up with the man's long legs.

John had quickly learned to just trust his instincts when it came to Sherlock Holmes. 

He had developed some sort of Sherlock radar - somehow he just _knows_ where he is. It comes in handy in dark alleys or abandoned warehouses. John doesn’t really have to _see_ him, he can sense him. 

There has always been this strong pull, this gravitation towards Sherlock, right from the beginning, and it only grew stronger the longer he spent time in the man's company. 

As if he was a magnet and John the needle of a compass, always aligned to Sherlock. 

John can't explain it; it is some odd kind of sixth sense. 

He had never told Sherlock about it, though. He would only mock him for it. 

But no matter what it is or how it actually works, John is grateful for it. 

Because tonight it had saved Sherlock's life … once again.

Sherlock is the most reckless being John has ever met. He doesn't care what happens to him or others as long as he catches the suspect and solves the puzzle. 

The man is a danger to himself and John has sworn to protect him at all costs. 

But sometimes it is hard, and every now and then, simply impossible. 

Just like tonight. 

They have never been as close to death as they were only three hours ago. 

Only a few inches more to the right and Sherlock would be laying in St. Bart's morgue, not sitting right there next to him. 

And that bloody bastard had just brushed it off and continued as if nothing had happened. 

John is still fuming when he thinks back to it. 

He shudders and tries to shoo the images in his head away but now they're rushing through his mind, unstoppable and brutally clear: 

He sees the two thugs approaching, sees them drawing their guns and aiming them in unison at Sherlock. 

It is always him, never John, always the Consulting Detective. 

Two guns, one pointing at Sherlock's head, the other one at his heart. 

The sly grins on the thugs’ faces as they pulled the trigger. 

John heard the echoes of the shots, bouncing of the walls of the alley, heard himself yelling Sherlock's name. 

He felt the bullets whisking past his arm and his hip as he knocked Sherlock off his feet. 

John grits his teeth as he remembers the pure audacity of Sherlock's miffed tone as he had pushed John off of him: “Now they're getting away, John.” 

For a moment John had just sat there on the wet pavement, staring at the man he called his friend, not believing what he had just heard. 

Hot rage had blinded him for a second before the rational part of his brain had kicked in. 

He got to his feet and walked away; he wasn't able to deal with Sherlock just then. 

Flagging down a cab, he just wanted to get home but Sherlock caught up and slipped into the car with him. 

Immediately he started talking, pointed out the assaulting men's habits and preferences and where they would likely be found.

All John was able to do was keep quiet and ignore the man as much as one can ignore a Holmes. 

Eventually Sherlock noticed that something was wrong but being Sherlock, he didn't ask, he just fell blessedly quiet. 

Now they are only a few streets away from home and suddenly John can't bear it anymore. 

“Stop here,” he says to the cabbie, startling all three of them after the long stretch of silence. 

The cabbie pulls over. He turns and looks curiously from John to Sherlock and back, raising a questioning eyebrow at John. 

“For God's sake,” John mutters, “he'll pay.” 

He doesn't care whether Sherlock has enough money on him and climbs out of the cab. 

Taking a deep breath of the cool air, he feels some of the tension leaving his body. 

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and starts walking. 

Russel Square is just around the corner and that's where he is headed. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the cab driving away and against better will – and for the driver's sake – he hopes Sherlock does have the money to pay him. Otherwise he is going to wake Mrs. Hudson so she can pay. 

“What a fucking idiot,” John grumbles to himself. 

He reaches the entry to the park and slowly walks inside. 

It's empty, of course, and dark, but the street lights around the park spend enough light for John to see his way. 

Aimlessly he wanders along the paths, letting the night soothe his frayed nerves. 

He is still angry, furious in fact, but the longer he walks, the calmer he becomes. The soft breeze clears his head and cools his temper. 

After a while he realizes that his entire body is hurting and as he reaches to a particular sore area of his left shoulder, his fingers come back bloodied. 

For the fraction of a second the image of a flying bullet flickers in front of his eyes and he groans. The bullet must have grazed him and he didn’t even notice. 

He stumbles over to one of the many benches in the park and falls heavily on it, searching his pockets for something to stop the bleeding. 

The chattering of his teeth has him pause. He cocks his head as if listening – his entire body has started trembling 

Holding a hand out in front of him, he eyes it cautiously, not really feeling attached to it: it is trembling like a leaf. 

Shock, he thinks weakly as he wraps his arms around himself, trying to stop the violent shudders that are shaking him. 

It takes a few minutes and some cursing before he has himself under control again. 

Just as he takes a few deep breaths, his neck starts prickling, a sure sign that... 

“John.” 

“No! Go away,” John growls, but since when does that prat listen to anything John says? 

Sherlock emerges from the shadows, quiet and graceful as always. 

He looms over John for a moment before he sits down next to him. 

John ignores him, tries to tune him out but he fails miserably. 

Sherlock's presence is too intense, too demanding even though he isn't saying anything, and John feels those sharp eyes on himself. 

“Don't...” John hisses wearily. It's all he can muster up in defense. 

Surprisingly Sherlock complies and John can breathe a little lighter without that scrutinizing gaze on him. 

They sit like this for a while, John taking deep breaths to calm his still slightly quivering limbs. 

It is Sherlock who breaks the silence; usually he can take the deafening silence much better than John. 

“John, I am sorry.” 

Sherlock's voice is calm, and John instinctively knows that he's only apologizing because he knows that John expects him to. 

Sherlock's people skills are almost non-existent, but they have lived together long enough now that he knows when it is appropriate to apologize. 

“No, you're not,” John says roughly, staring blindly out into the park. 

He can't look at the other man, he just can't. If he does, he might end up punching him for everything he had put them through tonight. 

But he can imagine the hurt look on the other man's face: he always does it when John disagrees with him. 

“John...” 

And there is the pleading tone, of course. Certainly combined with the puppy dog eyes Sherlock had perfected when it came to manipulating John. 

John forces himself to not glance over, but it is hard. 

As much as he hates to be manipulated by Sherlock, it makes him feel special and...needed. 

Because Sherlock _needs_ him. He would never admit that but they both know it. He needs John just as much as John needs him too. 

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye. 

“Don't you dare,” he spits out through gritted teeth and shifts away. 

If Sherlock touches him now he doesn’t know what he is going to do. 

He more feels than sees how Sherlock pulls his hand back, previously hovering over John's arm. 

“You are hurt.” Sherlock's says and the resigned tone in his voice finally makes John look up.

The sharp “It's just a scratch” dies on his lips. 

The sight Sherlock presents instantly drains all anger, all rage from John's bones: 

Sherlock sits stock still next to him but not in his usual straight way: his shoulders are hanging as if a heavy weight is pressing him down, his mouth is a hard thin line, and the creases on his forehead are so deep, they are casting shadows. He looks absolutely miserable and it tugs heavily on John's suddenly aching heart. 

He eyes him for a moment before he sighs. 

“You have no idea why I am mad at you, do you?” 

He is so very tired of even having to explain it again. 

“Because I risked your life?” 

It's more a question than a statement. 

“No, Sherlock, not because you risked _my_ life. I have risked my own life years ago, just as recklessly as you do these days. That's not what's bothering me.” 

Sherlock glares at him, confused and puzzled, and John shakes his head. 

“You just don't get it, do you? Sherlock, it's the way you risk your _own_ life.” 

“That is illogical, John. You just said, you ...” 

John interrupts him impatiently. 

“ _I_ never had anybody to lose, you idiot. _I_ was alone, _I_ had nobody waiting for me, nobody who would have shed a tear for me. Hell, sometimes I just wanted to ... never mind... Listen, you can't keep doing this... putting us, putting _yourself_ in such danger, risking everything just for a bloody case. It's stupid and idiotic and … one day I won't be there to save your ass. What will you do then, huh? What...” 

John realizes that he has become louder with every word he's saying, and bites his lips to stop himself. 

The sudden outburst is gone as quickly as it came; John feels the last bit of his energy leaving him. He is so goddamn tired, everything hurts and all he wants is to curl up in bed and sleep for a day. 

He looks at Sherlock, who is watching him motionless, only his eyes are flickering over John's face, cataloging every emotion. 

“Just stop it... stop this...” John murmurs, searching Sherlock's eyes and after a long moment of perfect stillness: 

“You have somebody to lose now, you know … _I_ have somebody to lose...” 

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and meaningful. John is too exhausted to worry about what it may say about his feelings for the other man, but right now he doesn’t really care what Sherlock thinks. 

Silence again. 

The dark sky starts to lighter and the first chirps sound in the bushes and trees around them; the night is almost over. 

They just sit there, side by side and yet world's apart, watching the sky turn from black to blue, the blinking stars slowly fading. The sky is tinted with gold and orange, a few gathered clouds shine pink and white above them. The sun is coming up, throwing its first tentative beams on both men, warming John's aching limbs a little. 

It's going to be a gorgeous day. 

“I want to go home,” John murmurs eventually. 

Without waiting for an answer he scrambles to his feet. 

He bites back a groan as a hot stab of pain surges through his lower back and his right leg. It has been a while since he felt like this and _walking_ home is suddenly very questionable. 

A hesitant hand closes gently around his elbow, keeping him on his feet him as he trips. 

John looks up. 

A brief smile darts over Sherlock's lips; for a split second John sees sorrow and concern flitting over his ethereal face before it vanishes again.

And for the duration of a heartbeat time freezes as they look at each other: 

Sherlock, tall and proud and yet insecure whether his help is wanted, and John - small, insignificant and yet so much more than it seems at first sight. 

John hems and then nods sharply, allowing Sherlock to steady him while they slowly shuffle towards Baker Street. 

They don't talk – there's not really anything to talk about anyway. 

John has said his part and Sherlock will not talk about anything that has happened, it's not his style. 

They will carry on, they will chase criminals through dark alleys, they will escape death, and it will be fine. 

Nothing will change, Sherlock will leave him behind on crime scenes and John will follow him wherever he goes. He will worry but he will keep going, trying to protect Sherlock – and himself – but his overall focus will be on Sherlock, making sure he survives another day, another week, another month. 

It has always been like this and it always will be. 

When they arrive at Baker Street, John is only still on his feet because Sherlock is holding him up. Half asleep, John has to concentrate hard to not just fall face down on the pavement. 

Sherlock stops short of their door and John fumbles through his pockets for the keys. 

When he finds them, his hands are shaking again and he has trouble getting the key into the lock. 

Without a word, Sherlock steps closer and lays his own hand over John's. It is warm, firm and strong and guides John's hand. 

The door opens and Sherlock slowly lets his hand slip away. John ignores the sudden cold on his skin and stumbles inside. 

He collapses against the wall in the hallway as his knees give out. 

But before he can slide down to the floor, Sherlock's arm closes around his waist and pulls him back up. 

John leans heavily against him, glad about the support. He has never felt so weak and so out of control than in this very moment. 

And even though he still can't forgive Sherlock, he is thankful that he is here, helping him up the stairs and into the flat. 

Sherlock keeps his arm around him as he leads him to the sofa. Only as John gracelessly falls into the cushion's he lets go and takes a step back, watching John closely. 

John's eyes feel as if they are filled with sand and now that he is finally home, he feels the prickling of tears behind his lids. 

He turns his back on the other man, curling into a ball, wanting to hide his weakness from Sherlock. 

He wouldn't understand it.

John hears soft footsteps, the rustle of clothes and then the unmistakable click of the kettle. 

It is quiet for a while. John has calmed down a bit and he takes a few shuddery breaths; at least the tears have stopped. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve but doesn’t move from his curled-up position on the sofa. 

Only as he hears the clinking of ceramics and the sound of water being poured into mugs, he unfolds and sits up. 

Sherlock comes back into the sitting room, carrying two steaming mugs. He hands John one before he sits on the coffee table. 

John raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything and wraps his cold hands around the hot mug instead. 

The aromatic steam helps him to breathe more freely, and carefully he takes a sip. 

His eyebrows shoot up and he glances at Sherlock, who quickly hides a smug smile in his own mug. 

Not only is it John's favourite blend, but Sherlock knew exactly how many sugars and how much milk he takes in it – it is perfect. 

John shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he's living with the most observant man in the world and yet he had never imagined that he would know how John takes his tea. 

He opens his mouth to say “thank you” but Sherlock shakes his head. 

John frowns as Sherlock sets down his mug on the table and searches John's eyes. 

“You are right,” Sherlock says softly. 

His voice is low and although he is merely whispering it seems too loud after the long silence. John flinches, and Sherlock quirk an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. 

When he continues, it's considerate and hushed, and it's better for John's over-sensitive ears. 

“You are right,” Sherlock repeats, “I am reckless.” 

John snorts unamused but Sherlock lifts a hand to stop him. 

“I never learned to take care of somebody other than myself. And even that only barely. 'Caring is not an advantage'... Mycroft's words, not mine. All my life I have lived by his words. Never have let anybody get close to me. Always kept my distance. I have seen too much, seen too many people breaking and dying because they have let people into their lives. Did you know that 60% of all murders in the UK are so-called crimes of passion? Committed because of _feelings_?” 

Sherlock scrunches his nose in distaste while saying the last word, looking as if it had personally offended him, before he continues: 

“This had been just another reason for me to stay away from people and their emotions. Every crime scene, every murder I have worked on convinced me even more that Mycroft was right...” 

He rubs a hand through his messy curls and over his face. As he meets John's eyes again, the soft expression in them startles John with its barely-concealed vulnerability. 

“He wasn't,” Sherlock continues quietly, “Mycroft. He wasn’t right. I know that now.” 

His gaze has captured John's, keeps him from looking away and the things John can see in the incredible depth of those multicoloured eyes has him swallow hard. 

“I do care, John. Not about much, but I do. I care about the case. I care about the fact that the criminal gets caught and can't cause more harm than absolutely necessary.” 

John wants to say something but then Sherlock does something that shocks John even more than anything else tonight. 

He looks down on that big, warm hand on his own, covering his smaller one completely. Stunned, he watches as Sherlock laces his long, elegant fingers with John's shorter ones. 

It feels wonderful. 

As he looks up again, Sherlock is smiling at him. 

Not the snarky grin or that bored sneer, but that rare gentle smile that John wished to see more often. 

It is beautiful. 

It brightens up Sherlock's eyes, makes them sparkle and deepens the tiny wrinkles around them. He looks so much younger when he smiles like this. 

Mesmerized by the sight, John jumps a little as Sherlock's other hand comes to rest on his cheek, carefully cupping his face. 

“I care about you, John Watson” he says, his voice hoarse and somewhat haunting, “actually, I care a whole lot more than I want to. And... well... it isn't a bad thing.” 

He seems to be wanting to say more but then he shakes his head, and only smiles a little wider at John. 

Silence falls again but it's not the heavy, hurtful one from earlier. 

It's easy and amiable, like it used to be between them. And yet there is something more, something deeper, something neither of them can – or want to – point out. 

They keep looking at each other, studying the other one's face like they are seeing it for the first time. 

Sherlock's thumb is gently caressing John's cheek, a hypnotizing back and forth against his skin and John leans into the comforting touch. 

There are no words, they don't need to talk about this … whatever this is, or might become. 

Nevertheless, they are having an entirely different conversation. 

John lets his heart speak for him and Sherlock's answers are just the same. And even despite the fact that he assured John ages ago that he doesn't have a heart, they are beating in synch. 

Eventually Sherlock lets go of John's face, making John sigh wistfully at the loss. 

Sherlock stands up, swaying a little before he catches himself again, and John realizes that the other one must be just as worn out as John himself is.

He stands up as well, groaning as his body protests heavily at the movement. 

He holds out a hand towards Sherlock and after a short hesitant moment Sherlock takes it. 

For a split second John feels awkward but then Sherlock tightens his grip around his fingers and slowly makes a few steps towards his bedroom.

He stops as he feels that John is not moving and turns again. 

“Please?” he says. 

Just one little word, plea and question all the same. 

John's sees hope and fear in Sherlock's usually so cool face, sees anxiety surfacing, only for a heartbeat, but it changes everything. 

As much as this man wants to be above all those dull humans – those he tries to protect so ruthlessly - and all of their silly feelings, he is just one of them: vulnerable and not immune to all of those emotions he despises so much. 

He tries so hard to distance himself from them, but when they hit, when they threaten to overwhelm him, he's at a bigger loss, in bigger danger than his worst case could provide. 

John knows how to help, he always does. 

“Come here,” he whispers, pulling him gently against himself. 

He wraps his arms around the taller man's waist and hugs him tightly. 

Sherlock is still for a moment before he returns the hug, burying his face in John's hair. 

They cling to each other and John inhales deeply. Sherlock's scent always had a calming effect on him –even if only to make sure he was close by and alive – but now it is a promise for something else entirely. He smiles against Sherlock's chest before he leans back and looks up, searching Sherlock's face. 

He is met with the most peaceful expression he has ever seen on the man's face. 

They have been through a lot together and there is certainly more to come – their lives aren't simple or easy - but they wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Sherlock trusts him, and despite everything the man had put him through, John knows with absolute certainty that there is nobody in this world he trusts more than Sherlock Holmes. 

John reaches up and presses a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. 

It's new and it's terrifying and it's the most amazing thing he has ever done. 

He has never been happier. 

“Come on,” he mutters, smiling sleepily at Sherlock who mirrors his smile, “let's go to bed.” 

And for once, Sherlock follows John. 

They will sleep fine tonight. 


End file.
